


Bells and Whistles

by Eremji (handsfullofdust)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demisexuality, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Frottage, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-07 05:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19078279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsfullofdust/pseuds/Eremji
Summary: Adam gave Aziraphale a body back. Like everything else Adam fixed, there are a few extra features that aren't covered in the standard issue angelic user manual. Luckily, Crowley has some practical experience with temptation.The Bentley is parked outside on the wet pavement, collecting a dewy shine in the foggy drizzle. It’s been there for approximately eighteen minutes, just long enough for its driver to make himself comfortable in Aziraphale’s back office.





	Bells and Whistles

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in GO fandom longer than I can believe (more than half my life at this point) and the miniseries definitely struck a match on an old can of gasoline. I do enjoy absolutely every iteration of Aziraphale and Crowley – from just friends, to explicit lovers, to ace partners – but this particular idea hit me halfway through episode 5 of the mini series and I had to write it down. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Entirely unbeta'd, except by myself about two dozen times. Any mistakes are my own.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://eremji.tumblr.com/) and on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Eremji)

‘ _I was just an only child of the universe_  
_And then I found you’ _  
\- Fall Out Boy ‘ _Last of the Real Ones_ ’__

____

____

*

 

All said and done, it’s a lot of drama and lead up for mostly nothing to have changed.

The shop is a little better than Aziraphale left it. The ducks down in St. James’s park are back to swimming in circles and begging for bread — the overall quality of which has been vastly improved. There are no traces of Hellfire or other unusual phenomena having occurred anywhere that Aziraphale has checked. A few sensitive individuals might recall a handful of events as though they’ve experienced a rather vivid dream.

Heaven and Hell are both quiet on all fronts.

The Bentley is parked outside on the wet pavement, collecting a dewy shine in the foggy drizzle. It’s been there for approximately eighteen minutes, just long enough for its driver to make himself comfortable in Aziraphale’s back office.

An evening rain is sweeping across Soho, not the usual unpleasant drip that plagues commuters this time of year, but a seasonably warm, crisp spritz. The whole world smells fresh and green, exactly like a humid day in the countryside.

Ordinarily, even this might not concern Aziraphale, the city being what it is, but an extremely vintage bottle of Dom Perignon is chilling in an ice bath while Crowley is toweling his hair dry, stripped down to his undershirt. Aziraphale didn’t even know Crowley _wore_ undershirts until a week ago. Six thousand years and there are still little things about a person that never come up.

He doesn’t know where the towel came from, why Crowley is using it instead of drying himself off the easy way, or why there’s a thirty thousand pound bottle of champagne involved. Crowley arrived with it under his arm, ostensibly to celebrate Earth’s continued existence separate of Heaven or Hell.

At some point when Aziraphale wasn’t looking, a cheese plate manifested on a cluttered worktable, nestled between a rare, illustrated French translation of _Mozi_ and _The Grapes of Wrath_ with an inscription from Steinbeck.

The whole affair is a bit luxurious, even for Aziraphale, but he supposes no one is keeping tabs on either of them just now. No one’s really been keeping very good tabs on them for a very long time.

Even if they were, it doesn’t prevent him from enjoying a delicious morsel of Mimolette with a bit of cranberry jam. He licks the sticky stuff off his fingertips when he’s certain Crowley isn’t looking.

“You really should invest in an umbrella,” Aziraphale says, looking everywhere except for Crowley. He sets a pair of completely superfluous reading glasses on the tip of his nose and neatly prints the details of a signed, first edition copy of _Where the Wild Things Are_ into his ledger. “Six millennia of storms and you still haven’t learned to keep yourself dry.”

“Ah, yes, what _would_ I do without you?” Crowley asks, but all the syllables seem to have gone soft around the edges, a little snakey. When Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, he feels himself go an alarming shade of pink at the affection in Crowley’s voice.

Crowley has his sunglasses off and a droplet of water is making its way down the bridge of his narrow nose. Aziraphale would very much like to turn away, so Crowley can’t see how flustered he is, but he can’t resist knowing what happens to it, so he’s caught staring quite obviously.

“Rained on even more frequently, I imagine,” Aziraphale observes, bending all his will to return to pretending to be studying a stack of hardcovers – the whole lot of which being far less dusty and ragged than he remembers, even as distracted as he is. Another side-effect of preventing the Apocalypse, no doubt. He checks his notes and sighs when he realizes he’s lost his place, setting the ledger aside. “Please don’t drip all over the Chaucer.”

Crowley makes an easygoing noise of assent that indicates he wouldn’t dream of it and slings the towel around his neck. He looks like some yuppie just come in from a lengthy jog.

All he’s missing is a juice shaker with some particularly foul concoction of mashed greenery and pair of ratty trainers. Aziraphale holds on to that deeply unappealing thought to try to distract himself from the tempting way Crowley’s mouth quirks up when he asks, “Shall we have a drink or are you going to faff around pretending I’m not in the room for the rest of the evening?”

Crowley’s appearance and flagrant familiarity come at an inopportune time; Aziraphale has discovered, over the last few days since averting the Apocalypse and then their little con job, that there are a few unexpected side-effects and features of his fast tracked recorporation.

Aziraphale was quite comfortable in his old body, having had it for six thousand years, though it was very no-frills and plain. It was functional, standard issue; a good, humble body for good, humble deeds. As a bonus, it’s always handled a five course meal with aplomb, while still managing to still have room for a bit of extra brandy during afters.

This one has the same paint job, to borrow Crowley’s vernacular, but it has a few new bells and whistles under the hood – namely, the very real, very physical sense of arousal he’s been experiencing at unexpected intervals.

Just as a dog-shaped creature is inclined to dig holes and chase squirrels, Aziraphale finds his appreciation of the human – well, demonic – form to be somewhat expanded to include a not-before-considered dimension.

Very specifically expanded, approximately to the space Crowley occupies at any given moment.

Aziraphale wouldn’t find it quite so disorienting to be sitting around and, say, looking at his oldest friend and suddenly be thinking unexpected and slightly embarrassing carnal thoughts if he felt at all as if he could muster a single gram of subtlety. For one, he feels as though he must suddenly be broadcasting his predicament across all wavelengths, both earthly and celestial.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says, fussing with his buttons in lieu of actually addressing the fact that he’s been trying his best not to make direct eye contact with Crowley for the better part of the last fifteen minutes. Crowley stomped into his bookshop and kicked off his flash leather shoes and it was all downhill from the moment his bare feet touched the floor.

It’s not as if Aziraphale’s never seen Crowley unshodden before, but that was back in the days where foot washing was still in vogue and everyone wandered about covered in a thin layer of unappealing grime. He sneaks a look at Crowley’s feet and is oddly disappointed to find them as narrow, pale, and as clean as the rest of him. Not in need of a wash at all.

The idea of Crowley barefoot and Aziraphale down on his knees with his hands gripping those strong, narrow ankles while he — _well_. There’s something quite emphatic to be said about kneeling in service, at least if his new equipage is to be trusted.

But then, Crowley’s peeling his undershirt off and giving it a good shake at exactly the time Aziraphale looks up. It’s not his fault a scandalized noise escapes, quite involuntarily, nor even his fault that he goes ten shades of red at the sight of water trickling down Crowley’s narrow, trim belly towards the buckle of his leather belt.

Both of Crowley’s eyebrows shoot upwards with such speed that Aziraphale fears they might loft themselves directly into the air and take Crowley with them.

Aziraphale, being himself and unable to lie very well – and Crowley, being familiar with all manner of carnal temptations – both stare at each other for a very tense moment before Crowley asks, “The boy wonder bake your new body a little too long, did he?”

“It’s absolutely nothing worth mentioning,” Aziraphale says, doing his best to stalk casually towards the bottle of champagne. He doesn’t succeed at stalking at all and he rattles the delicate crystal flutes together as he tries to set them out for a pour, cracking one. He mutters, “Oh, blast.”

“Here, allow me.” Crowley slides in right beside him, smelling wonderfully of his plants and the fabric softener he uses on his sheets and ever so faintly like stardust. There’s a little bit of old fashioned brimstone under there, too, but Aziraphale’s been around it so long that it just lends a pleasant acidity to the other stuff, like clover in a salad. “Nothing to be ashamed of. New body and all. There comes a time in every young man’s life when he begins to feel certain stirrings —”

“What nonsense are you about to spew now?” Aziraphale demands, flustered for more than one reason. Crowley looks like he’s having far too much fun, for one thing, and the brand new voice in Aziraphale’s trousers is suggesting that they might have _even_ _more_ fun, if only it could get at Crowley’s remaining buttons.

Heaven save him. But he’ll get no aid from that quarter, he’s seen to that.

“I offering to educate you on the basics of corporeal reproduction,” Crowley says, all teeth. His eyes really are brilliant up close; Aziraphale’s always had a bit of a soft spot for snakes from the very beginning. All of God’s creatures, but certainly the slithery ones for reasons best left unexamined.

“I know all about intercourse, thank you so very much,” Aziraphale says. Despite Michael and Sandalphon embarrassing themselves in front of his mortal clientele, has some rather well-preserved erotica sitting out of sight of the general public. “It’s unavoidable, when you’ve lived among humans as long as we have. The early days were quite educational, before they invented sexual shame.”

He considers himself very forward-thinking in the matters of the heart, but having an academic knowledge about something is quite different from having a practical one. He doesn’t say that part out loud.

“Pity about that,” Crowley says. The champagne flute is repaired with a caress of his long fingers and Crowley pops the cork into the palm of his hand with great care. “But you’ve really never tried it? I suppose the Nephilim were never a big hit.”

“Of course not. And you have?” Aziraphale looks alarmed. Demonic company isn’t exactly sanitary, present company much excluded.

“Dallied with a few mortals. Very early days,” Crowley says, averting his eyes while he pours for them both. Aziraphale is fixated on the sight of Crowley and catches the little hitch of breathing that betrays the lie, “Really, just doing my duty and all.”

Aziraphale is stunned into momentary silence, but recovers enough mental wherewithal to ask, “Doing your duty? Did you just lie back and think of Hell, then?” without first considering how envious he sounds.

Crowley presses the champagne flute into Aziraphale’s palm and gives him a look like Aziraphale’s gone mad. “That would be entirely the opposite of productive to anyone enjoying the whole process, don’t you think?”

He clears his throat, but Crowley is studying him with close interest. Aziraphale wonders if there’s a long history of unfaithful wives or disgraced politicians’ sons — or if Crowley went in for grizzled sheepherders or their daughters — and then is ashamed of his speculation. It’s really none of his business.

He straightens and makes every effort not to beat a retreat. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. Though, now that you’ve said so, I can’t imagine Hell would be very pleasant to think about no matter what the situation.”

“You’re not one of those ‘sex is only for reproduction’ wankers, are you?” Crowley seems prepared to be disappointed in Aziraphale’s answer, as if he didn’t spend the duration of Earth’s existence chasing Aziraphale round the globe in pursuit various forms of excess.

He _knows_ that Aziraphale is a bit predisposed to indulging in earthly delights. It’s criminally easy to tempt him with good picarones. And, in theory, he isn’t opposed to congress. It’s just that there isn’t – _wasn’t_ – anyone. There’s so much else to enjoy, it simply never occurred to him to make an effort solely on his own behalf.

“It isn’t an angel’s place to judge the means of which the Almighty ensures fruitful unions.” He pauses, frowning. “Though, through a few unfortunate observations, the duration and enthusiasm of the act doesn’t particularly seem to matter when life would like to get on with multiplying.”

“Like goats in a Berkshire field,” Crowley mutters rather cryptically. Aziraphale suspects it must have something to do with the fourteenth century again, being a rather dark and unwashed time in Earth’s history. Quite a few goats, quite a few pigs, probably a lot of midnight trysts in prime demonic lurking real estate. Messy business all around.

Having tossed back his champagne, Crowley refills them both. Aziraphale notices very suddenly that Crowley is standing even closer than before. Far too close for polite conversational distance. Because he can’t think of anything else, he says, “Oh, pardon me. Do I have something on my face?”

Crowley always seems much taller than he is the closer he is to Aziraphale. That’s a little ridiculous. Being of the same stock, they’re almost exactly of a height. He can’t help but think of Crowley’s little outburst in Tadfield, when Crowley’s body had been crushed up against his for the briefest of moments.

Instead of just the alarm and dismay of disappointing his friend, he now feels a flicker of genuine anticipation deep in his belly. It coils expectantly, as if suddenly aware that two bodies being so close could lead to something far more interesting than a row.

Slim fingers land on the buttons of Aziraphale’s vest and Aziraphale nearly leaps out of his skin. Crowley has him boxed in. Any escape he might manage will be far too obvious, and he finds he really doesn’t want to go anywhere at all.

Crowley says, much too low and much too intimately for it to be unintentional, “Something has just occurred to me,” and the loaded implication of those six words make Aziraphale vibrate all the way down to a molecular level. “You waving that great flaming sword of yours at me while in danger of being swallowed up by the Beast of the Pit himself must have shaken something loose.”

Really, in hindsight, it isn’t entirely unexpected, he thinks. And it mustn’t have only just occurred to Crowley at all, who’s looking at Aziraphale — at Aziraphale’s _mouth_ — like a man who’s been thirsty his whole life and only just wandered out of the desert to find the world is mostly water.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says and drops his champagne flute. It vanishes just before it hits the floor and the only concern he’s left with is that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Not at all. Lacking a plan, he repeats, “ _Oh_.”

Crowley seems to have a plan, however – or at least a strategy. Insofar as Aziraphale can tell, anyhow. He crowds into Aziraphale’s space, just insistent enough that Aziraphale cedes to him, but with a gentleness that puts Aziraphale at ease. Crowley’s deep, measured tenderness, when he chooses to reveal it, has always made Aziraphale’s heart go a little weak at its metaphorical knees.

He tips Aziraphale’s chin up to gaze at him searchingly. He must find what he’s looking for in Aziraphale’s wide eyes and trembling bottom lip, because he leans in and gives Aziraphale a kiss that tastes of champagne and of all the good things in the world combined.

His tongue is soft, wet, and clever when he coaxes Aziraphale’s mouth open and they share the sharp, involuntary breath that Aziraphale takes. It makes him tingle from the base of his skull all the way down his spine.

Crowley pulls away and looks at Aziraphale. His mouth is wet and Aziraphale, to his own surprise, only just stops himself from clumsily chasing after him. His voice is a little rough and slithery, like scales over a rock. “This all right, angel?”

That this might ruin their Arrangement is only a momentary flicker in Aziraphale’s mind.

He’s loved Crowley for a very long time, deeply and helplessly from the very bottom of himself. It’s something Aziraphale has known and accepted as fact for a very long time, the first seed of it planted by a half-eaten apple in a garden nearly as old as the stars themselves.

There are a few very small problems, though. Aziraphale isn’t so concerned with the physicality of the act — a matter which is easily settled by the basic biology of his corporeal form being flexible enough to emulate copulation in a multitude of configurations — but the logistics of where to engage in an intimate encounter are somewhat more challenging. “That was quite lovely, only —"

“Only what? I won’t hear of you carrying on with this just for my sake,” Crowley says very seriously, as though Aziraphale is preparing to offer to bed him out of _charity_. He looks somewhat alarmed, like he’s just tripped over one of Aziraphale’s books and damaged something precious.

Aziraphale hurries to reassure Crowley, because he can see where any hesitation might be construed for disinterest when he’s experiencing a rather troubling abundance of the opposite. “Oh, no, no, _nothing_ like that, my dear.”

“Well, what then? Out with it,” Crowley demands, all stiff upper lip while managing to be utterly transparent in his insecurity. He shifts from one foot to the other. “Is it the brimstone? Is it the eyes?”

“It’s only — I don’t have a bed, and isn’t this whole process somewhat more comfortable on a flat surface?” He gestures around at the bookshop, every available space overflowing with dusty tomes, to emphasize his point.

Crowley stares at him blankly, evidently not expecting a proposition, then lights up so brilliantly he could be a stand-in for a lighthouse beacon. Crowley sweeps him into a bone-creaking embrace, his face wedged between Aziraphale’s shoulder and jaw. Aziraphale closes his eyes and can’t help but bask in it, full of light and joy that’s not entirely his own.

He is, after all, a creature of the Almighty, and physical affection is one of Creation’s blessings. Any expression of love is a true benediction, even if parts of the process have previously seemed too damp and squelchy to be appealing for Aziraphale without sufficient external motive.

“I’ve got a solution for that,” Crowley says when he finally releases Aziraphale from his embrace, looking sheepish at his outburst, then takes Aziraphale by the arm and leads him further into the shop.

The bed, a perfect size for two person-shaped beings to be tuck themselves away, is nestled in the back of Aziraphale’s office, behind a rather solid set of bookcases that provide ample privacy. It’s covered in a quantity of pillows that would make royalty blush. Above the soft purple quilt, little glow in the dark stars have been stuck to the ceiling in the blobby shape of the Milky Way.

It looks like a lovely place to have a lie down to read a book. Or a lie down to do somewhat else. Aziraphale feels himself wobble a little and Crowley shores him up with his bony hip.

“Can’t take credit for this one,” Crowley says, palm soft and solid under Aziraphale’s elbow. “I only noticed it when I was checking up on things.”

“It’s quite lovely,” Aziraphale says as he turns. Crowley is red around the cheeks, nearly glowing from the inside out. Aziraphale’s heart swells, a softness that seems like it’s there for the long haul taking root beneath his breastbone. “I believe this is where I would invite you to join me? Please tell me if I’m doing something wrong, my dear.”

Crowley’s gaze sweeps over him and Aziraphale tenses with unfamiliar anticipation. “Not so certain you could ever do anything wrong.”

Aziraphale’s been seeing that expression on Crowley’s face for thousands of years, over bottles of wine and muddy fields alike. Each look is like a little miracle, a little scrap of pure divine presence infused into this improbable companionship, the movement of it flickering inside of Crowley like a firefly at dusk, winking in and out and best visible if looking at the bigger picture from a distance.

Only now, with Crowley standing pressed up against him, does Aziraphale really understand that he’s been missing that piece of the puzzle the entire time. To his advantage, Crowley doesn’t have his sunglasses on, so Aziraphale can read the moonstruck look on his face as clear as day.

“In regard to your prior offer, a thorough practical education would not be mislaid,” Aziraphale suggests, then is promptly flustered by a slow, tenacious blossom of the smirk that tugs the corner of Crowley’s mouth vaguely upwards.

Aziraphale’s heart metaphorically lodges itself in his throat — in reality, it only begins to beat swiftly, having discerned a noble reason to move things along. They come together so very sweetly; Crowley steps into Aziraphale’s personal space and undoes all the buttons of his vest, one by one, taking his time while their noses bump.

Crowley doesn’t kiss him right away, but Aziraphale can tell that he desperately wants to. Aziraphale _wants_ him to. He realizes very jarringly that they’re both breathing, without either of them needing to, and Crowley’s pulse is fluttering beneath Aziraphale’s fingertips.

Crowley pulls the vest away and drops it on the floor, then extracts Aziraphale from his jumper with great care. It leaves them both on equal footing – both with a frustrating amount of clothing left. Aziraphale reaches out and touches Crowley’s body curiously, exploring the planes of his belly, the flare of his ribs, moving slow because he isn’t sure what Crowley enjoys. Crowley shivers under the touch, enjoying it all anyways.

Aziraphale is softer all around and he spares a moment to be shy about it, but Crowley seems to not mind at all. He lowers Aziraphale onto the bed and descends over him like a shadow, kneeling while he slides his hands up Aziraphale’s body. A shuddery sound of pleasure erupts from Aziraphale, barely more than a puff of air, when Crowley’s thumbs graze over his nipples on the way up. Crowley hisses with satisfaction.

The first contact of Crowley’s tongue to the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat feels somewhat similar to touching a live electrical wire. Aziraphale’s newly connected nerve endings all sing with a sudden desire to be stimulated, but his brain, unaccustomed to more carnal pleasures, seizes up.

Crowley laughs, the sound filling the space between them with a warm sibilance. Perhaps Eve must have felt such, with Crowley hissing his sweet temptations in her ear. Completely unhinged, deeply curious, painfully in need of relief from something indescribable, something that hadn’t even been invented yet.

Then, Crowley asks, “Maybe we ought to take it slower, angel?” He strokes his hands down Aziraphale’s side, expression deeply covetous. Crowley’s the best sort, especially for a demon, but he’s lived six thousand years of mortal decadence and his gaze is unrepentantly hungry.

Aziraphale makes a sound of protest, because slowing down is the last thing he wants, not with Crowley looking at him like a particularly decadent tiramisu. “Don’t you think the entire history of the planet is slow enough?”

By way of agreement, Crowley slithers up against him, pressing their bodies together from shoulder to hip. Aziraphale can feel just how substantial Crowley’s interest is, nestled hard and unyielding in the vee of Aziraphale’s hip. Aziraphale’s own interest is making itself very known and perpetuating the formation of a damp spot in his undergarments in retaliation.

It makes him blush to admit it, but he’d very much like to get his hands on whatever is hiding in Crowley’s pants. His timing is fortunate because Crowley takes the opportunity to ask, “Can I take your trousers off?” and Aziraphale consents immediately with an eager groan.

Crowley makes it look easy. Aziraphale can’t tell if any of Crowley’s demonic wiles are being used to smooth the process, being as distracted and flustered as he is, but in a trice his trousers are on the floor and Crowley is laid out next to him naked as the day they were created. Nudity doesn’t normally move Aziraphale to great passion on its own, as a rule, but the context of the situation makes the vast, bare expanse of Crowley’s skin riveting.

And Crowley especially lovely when slides over Aziraphale, straddling Aziraphale’s hips, erect member jutting proudly out from his belly. Up close, Aziraphale can count out the little scales smattering his skin like green and cream-colored gemstone accents — at the proud angles of his shoulders, at his elbows, down his belly and hips, they catch the light and glow with iridescence.

His hair isn’t quite long enough to fall across his face, but it curls around it like each ringlet was rendered in loving care by Botticelli, still a little damp from the rain. He’s breathtakingly beautiful. He feels like Aziraphale’s whole world condensed down into one man-shaped package.

“I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a loss as how to proceed,” Aziraphale says breathlessly. “What would be best now?”

Instead of answering him, Crowley cranes down and kisses him, slow and consuming, until Aziraphale feels like he’s going to burst into flames just from that much. Crowley’s mouth tastes like the Dom Perignon and the first spark of elemental life at the heart of a newborn star.

Aziraphale drags his nails down Crowley’s back without thinking, wanting him closer, wanting something he can’t quite name, and Crowley groans into his mouth.

A surge of something leaps between them and everything goes frantic and fuzzy for a moment. It isn’t plain, old-fashioned lust. Aziraphale’s not even sure he’s capable of lust, except perhaps in all but the most conservative of definitions. But he’s overcome all the same, full of heat and lightning and a confused, wonderful, intoxicating tangle of unfamiliar sensory input.

Crowley gets his erection right up against Aziraphale’s and ruts against him. As crude as it’s always looked on the outside, it doesn’t _feel_ crude — it feels fantastic. They’re trapped together in the circle of Crowley’s hand, sliding alongside each other, each metered movement driving Aziraphale closer and closer to something tantalizing and just out of reach. He wants to reach it, he wants Crowley to reach it, he wants to reach it together. Climb every mountain.

Aziraphale loses track of himself a little and all of his limited concentration is devoted to rocking up to meet every thrust, leaking wet preejaculate onto himself and Crowley while he clutches at Crowley’s back. It’s sloppy and crude. Like many things that are both sloppy and crude, it feels so good that he’s trapped on the precipice of needing completion and never wanting to stop.

Crowley puts a fist in Aziraphale’s hair and pulls just hard enough to tip his head to the side. He worries at the soft skin at Aziraphale’s throat, suckling, and makes faint noises that would be concerning if Aziraphale weren’t making them right back in mass quantities.

“Oh, Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale gasps. Crowley kisses the breath right out of him and then, with preternatural ease, begins to move his lower body in a way that Aziraphale is quite certain any being with a human-shaped spine might find entirely too difficult to manage.

Six thousand years and he never knew it could feel like this. Six thousand years and the constricting grip of Crowley’s hand, the way Crowley’s head tips back in decadent revelry, the thrust of skin against skin, fills him with so much adoration that it spills out between them.

And then something else quite more damp and sticky spills onto Aziraphale’s belly.

Crowley won’t ever admit it, vain, wonderful creature he is, and Aziraphale is too polite to mention it — and anyways, his toes are too busy curling — but Aziraphale barely holds out the longer of the two of them. His orgasm takes him right alongside Crowley, leaving him wracked with sensation and a panting mess. It crawls up through him like a heat wave and spills and spills until he’s certain that time has stopped entirely.

Crowley collapses in a boneless heap beside him, eyes slitted so that Aziraphale can only see the faintest sliver of color. He looks as though he might be in danger of falling asleep instantly.

Aziraphale can’t do anything but attempt to remember how to speak.

“That wassss fantasssstic,” Crowley hisses, then clears his throat. His hair is an utter disaster. He looks exquisite. “Are you certain you haven’t done that before, angel?”

“Quite,” Aziraphale says, arms folded over his belly. He still feels a little unattached from reality, floating in a blissful afterglow even though they’ve made a terrible mess. He can’t stop looking at Crowley – doesn’t think he’ll ever stop.

“Ssso,” Crowley starts, then clears his throat a second time. He looks vaguely contrite, but Aziraphale wishes he wouldn’t. He’s quite fond of the slightly slithery way Crowley’s worked himself into Aziraphale’s life. “Are you keeping the new model?”

Aziraphale considers this. Intercourse has only seemed a bother, but even now that they’ve satisfied the most insistent impulse, Aziraphale is still thinking that he might like to sample a few other flavors, as it were. “I believe so, yes. Had I known I would have been so inclined, I might have inquired about a different Arrangement some time ago.”

Crowley pushes himself up on one elbow. He looks hopeful but also like he’s trying too hard for an air nonchalance. It translates into a slightly wild-eyed grimace that indicates he might make a mad dash for his trousers, and then the door, at any moment. “Friends with a different set of benefits?”

Aziraphale gives him a smile in return, feeling suddenly as shy as when Crowley first called upon him. He says, because there’s no need to deny it to anyone any more, “Rather more than _friends_ , my dear.”

“Oh, well, that’s very good news,” Crowley says with great delight, slumping against the bed, quite suddenly content to make himself right at home. Perhaps in the morning they can go in search of a little restaurant that serves beignets. Aziraphale can hold Crowley’s hand across the table while they have espresso and cover themselves in powdered sugar.

Perhaps, much later, he can have Crowley give him a few more lessons in his most recent corporeal additions.

Aziraphale can’t help himself at the thought – he kisses Crowley again.

And then again, and again, the rain drumming against the bookshop windows and, overhead, the little stick on stars glowing in the shape of the galaxy.


End file.
